


Questionable Motives

by naturallymorbid



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Adam Driver - Freeform, Alternate Universe, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Kylo Ren x Reader - Freeform, Past Abuse, Undercover Agent, bad marriage, kylo ren and you - Freeform, reader is a book nerd, you - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-28
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2019-12-25 14:49:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18263540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naturallymorbid/pseuds/naturallymorbid
Summary: Kylo Ren x Reader.  When you receive a new next-door neighbor named Ben, you don't want to be attracted to him.  Not after your marriage ended so badly.  But, you begin to feel an attraction.  Just when things seem to be going great for once and you're finally falling for a good man, you realize that Ben may not be who he said he was... Who is he really?  Can you trust him?





	1. The Neighbor

Chapter 1: The Neighbor

As you are leaving for work, you see your new neighbor step out onto his porch and retrieve the morning paper.  You had watched him move in a few days before, alone thankfully. 

You nearly trip down your steps as he raises one, long-fingered hand in greeting, the other wrapped securely around a steaming cup of coffee. 

“Morning,” he says, his deep voice resonating in the damp, foggy air.  He bends over to pick up the paper, tightening his shirt across broad, well-defined shoulders.  When he rights himself, his soft-looking, dark hair shags outs, framing his striking face.  You were always a sucker for guys with longer hair.

“Mmm’orning,” you mumble.  Men who look like him, don’t usually look at you these days.  Beneath a pound of makeup, there are physical scars that would help identify you.    

“Off to work?” he asks, bright hazel eyes flick over your face.    

The little sarcastic area in your brain wants to reply, “Duh.  Why else would I be out at this God-forsaken hour?” 

“Um, yeah.”  A little too late you realize that he is just being neighborly, trying to make small talk with you.  You really should start making your coffee earlier.  “Yeah, just on my way downtown to the office.”

“Oh, where do you work?” he asks, temporarily abandoning the paper and coming down the steps. 

You notice that he is barefoot, which makes you happy – although you’re not sure why.  Long, pale feet constrast on the brick walk. 

“The library,” you tell him.     

His wide, sensuous mouth breaks into a grin.  He has the kind of lips that are begging to be kissed. 

“That must be fun,” he comments. 

“Oh, buckets,” you say, feeling a little awkward.  At the library, you mainly work in the stacks where you can hide, secretly reading mostly crime novels. 

You don’t like to spend much time talking to strangers, not after you ran away from your marriage.  Your ex-husband was a nightmare. 

“I’ll have to come check it out sometime.”  He holds out his free hand.  “I’m Ben,” he tells you. 

“Chloe,” you tell him.  It’s not your real name though; just the identity you assumed from Witness Protection. 

He repeats the name, tasting it.  Even though its not your real name, it still sends a delicious shiver down your spine. 

You glance at your watch. 

“I’ve got to be going,” you say, just the slightest reluctance in your voice.  He’s a stranger.  No need in getting too attached. 

“Ah, well then I’ll see you around?”  The inflection at the end sounds hopeful. 

“Sure, we’re neighbors.” 

“Well, Chloe, I’ll see you around.” 

A little sigh inward.  He does have a nice voice. 

“Sure Ben,” you tell him and head off to work.  It takes more will power than you’re used to, not to turn around and see what he’s doing. 

It’s both exhilarating and frightening that someone has moved into the house next door.  That place has been empty since you moved in about a year ago. 

This was a nice neighborhood, very quiet with mostly older couples and retirees.  Nothing very exciting ever really happened, which was a relief. 

You didn’t think you could take anymore drama in your life, after the events with your ex.  That was enough drama for a lifetime and a half. 

At work, you try to stay busy, and by busy you mean hidden in the tall stacks.  You grab your favorite mystery author and hide away at the end of a shelf.  But your thoughts continue to revert to your next-door neighbor. 

Had there been a wedding ring?  You couldn’t recall, but then shoved the thought away. 

You had been married and were not looking to be tied to someone else again any time soon. 

But you were a sucker for guys with longer hair, tall and broad. 

Finding no respite in your book, you decide to actually shelve the books for a while before someone comes looking for you. 

 

  


	2. Visits from Past and Present

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I had hoped to make this chapter a light and fluffy meeting, but somehow things went different. Still some fluff, but some filler and fleshing, as well as history.

Over the next few weeks, Ben continues to greet you each morning with his familiar coffee cup and the paper.  You notice, and file this away for later, his coffee cups tend to run towards funny, witty sayings.  One morning, it’s a “naughty, nice, and I tried” while another morning it’s a prescription written out “to drink whenever sleepy.” 

Whether he is trying to draw you into a conversation with the zany cups or just really appreciates good humor, it doesn’t matter.  You end up commenting on each one.  It feels surprisingly natural to share a laugh with someone in the morning before you head off to your monotonous job. 

At work, you tell your confidant – Rey- about Ben.  Your identity, Chloe, has friends.  As far as friends go, Rey is pretty ace.  She doesn’t pester you to go out clubbing or get drunk or try to hook up with random guys.  She respects your privacy and shares in your wicked sense of humor. 

“Hmm,” she says, tapping an index finger on her chin as she contemplates the book hold list.  “It sounds as if he ‘fancies’ you.” 

You had just finished telling her that he is on his porch in the afternoons reading when you get home now.

“I know.  What should I do?” 

“Invite him over for a cup of tea?  Some biscuits?”

She hands you one of the books off the list and you set it on the cart. 

“Biscuits?” you ask, though you know what she means.  You do it just to drive her crazy.

“Cookies, as you say here in the States.”  Rey rolls her eyes at you, a smirk on her lips.  “Along with your al-umin-um foil.”  She emphasizes the difference for you.  “Instead of al-umin-ium foil.” 

“Thanks Rey.” 

Your concentration at work is really off.  Instead of just contenting yourself, hiding in the shelves from your supervisor and reading, you find yourself daydreaming about Ben, whose last name you don’t even know.  You realize that with a start. 

Maybe you should get his last name for starters today before he intrudes much more on your daydreams.  He is keeping you from a riveting Agatha Christie novel this afternoon.  

As you leave the for the day, Rey whispers “Good luck.” 

You nod and touch the tip of your nose for a signal.  She tilts her head quizzically to the side.  You mouth, “Nevermind.”

On the bus ride home, your mind wanders guided by the lull of the road. 

Your ex-husband, Armitage is encroaching on your thoughts.  You try to push him away. 

_He’s dead,_ you think.  _He’s nothing more than a ghost._

As if to confirm your thoughts, the air brakes hiss and release. 

You saw in the papers where he had been killed in a police shootout right after the trial.  The paper had printed a picture of his sheet-covered body, surrounded by police. 

You had hoped that you would regain your life back, but with so many trafficking associates, the government felt it best to keep you hidden.  So, Chloe you remained, alive – at least, while he was a ghost. 

Armitage.  Such a strong name for such a weak man.

Anywhere, anytime there was a shot at power, he leaped for it.  You had been blinded by this fact.  Even if it meant selling you and your body out to his associates.  Taking his rage out on you.  Even if it meant sacrificing your chance to be a mother. 

Armitage had told you over and over again that children didn’t figure into his plans, but that didn’t stop him from using your body as he saw fit.    

When you had first learned that you would be a mother, you had hidden the evidence as best you could.  This was your chance to seize your little piece of happiness.  A child, someone to really love you.  A light to fend off the darkness. 

Surprisingly, Armitage had allowed the baby to continue to grow within you.  He had stopped forcing himself on you at night, stopped pimping you out.

You should have known he had planned something far worse. 

At eight and a half months pregnant, you were now a liability.  Coward.  Didn’t even have the guts to try to do you in himself. 

Instead, one of his cronies smashed you over the head and stomach with something heavy, carried you out into the middle of the desert, and left you for dead. 

If that kind explorer, Luke, had not come across you when he did, you would have certainly been dead. 

And your child…

You wiped a big, messy tear from your eye as the bus makes it way toward your stop. 

When you had awoken a few weeks later in the hospital, your body was empty.  Your baby was gone. 

During the court case, you testified against your husband.  You wanted revenge and justice for the life he had stolen, the two lives he had stolen. 

And in the end, you didn’t even get that.  Rather than face the inevitable of jail time, he took the coward’s way out. 

Eventually, you got this second chance.  Life on the run.

 Taking out a compact, you touch up the little bit of mascara that has dribbled down your cheek.  Allergies, you’ll say, if anyone stares. 

You hardly notice the mishmash of scars that texture one half of your face, the ones that make you look like a broken china doll.  Your hair finally grew enough to hide the scars on your head. 

At one time, you had beautiful golden - red hair which reached your waist.  Now it was a flat brunette, kept shorter, around your shoulders.  _You **are** a different person, _you think to yourself as you exit the bus. 

You walk down your street, nodding at neighbors out working in their yards.  Spring is coming.  The azaleas are already blooming in shades ranging from the palest baby pink to dark magenta.  Your own yard could use some attention. 

Maybe you would spend time working on it with your day off tomorrow.  Maybe Ben…

As you approach, he’s sitting on the porch, reading a cowboy novel. 

“Evening,” he tells you, nodding and smiling. 

“Evening,” you reply, unable to keep the smile from your own lips.  Deep breath.  “Would you like to come over for some tea and bis-cookies?  I made chocolate chip cookies last night.” 

A look of surprise crosses his face for a minute.  He must not have been expecting that out of you. 

“Sure,” he replies, the smile back in place.  “I would like that.”    

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the feels! Ugh, went in a decidedly different direction than I had planned. Yay for a longer chapter though!


	3. Bis-Cookies, Tea, and Freckles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and comments.

As Ben follows you into your humble abode, you intensely aware of the unmistakable smell of his cologne – a type of spruce/woodsy thing and the underlying scent of live male.  Armitage had always favored the “whatever was on sale” method of scent covering. 

Up close, you notice the smattering of freckles on his face.  Something hot begins pooling in your belly.  Something at once familiar and alien.  This was a feeling you had read about in a tawdry romance, but not experienced for yourself. 

The cowboy novel – _Riders of the Purple Sage_ by Zane Grey is still in his hand as he follows you to your kitchen. 

“Head’em up, move’em out, Rawhide!” you tell him as you fetch two, embarrassingly plain mugs from your cupboard. 

He chuckles, laying the book down on the table.  He does not commit one of the ultimate book sins by dog-earing a page to keep track of his progress.  A silent “squee” of relief rushes through you.  At the library, when you’re checking in books, compulsion dictates that you try to soothe the dog ears from the pages.  It drives Rey mad.    

“Always was a sucker for those big hats,” he tells you, sitting down at your cozy kitchen table. 

The top of the table has real character, scarred and chipped, but in a country-chic way.  Plus, it was a steal at a yard sale, just five dollars. 

“Oh really?”  This banter is easy.  You put a kettle on and dig around in your cupboards.  They’re starting to look a little empty.  “I have green or black.”

“Green,” he tells you.

“You’re not a health nut, are you?” you smirk, placing your chipped, Goodwill plate of cookies in the microwave to warm them. 

“No.  Not in the way you’re thinking.  I just happen to like the taste.”  He is still taking in your kitchen.  Out of all the rooms in your house, this is one of the ones that offers you that sense of coziness and normalcy that you’re constantly searching for. 

“Okay, because if not, I would have said more cookies for me.  I also don’t have any hilarious mugs,” you confess. 

“I’ll bring you one the next time.  I have a shelf full of them.” 

Next time?  So, he would like to continue to see you beyond today? 

As you turn to see to the quickly heating water, you don’t deny the smile spreading across your face.  Social norms dictate that you engage in small talk.  Chloe doesn’t fail at this skill, you muse, but you do.  Especially since it’s been so long since anyone wanted to hang out with you. 

But Ben apparently has better experience with small talk and begins asking you about your work.  Work is such a comfortable topic.  You begin explaining some of your favorite patrons that come in the library, about your silly boss, about all of your favorite hiding sections to sit and read when you have a chance. 

Armitage didn’t like to let you read.  He believed that a smart woman was a dangerous woman.  He was right.  You had been dangerous to him.  You had grown accustomed to hiding your reading materials so now it was second nature.

With pride, you think of your living room, full of books, all on display. 

Ben is laughing and smiling at your stories.  Your heart warms. 

He has also swiped quite a few of the cookies and complimented your tea, even though you know both are nothing special.  You don’t care though.  It’s nice to feel like a normal human being again, before Armitage lured you in with his hollow promises.     

“What about you,” you ask, “what do you do?”

“I write,” he tells you.  “How fortunate huh?” 

“Well I was wondering,” you tell him, though your gut tells you something else.  “Since we keep meeting.  What do you write?” 

“Mysteries.  I write mysteries, which you seem to like.  I couldn’t help but notice that you seem to like a good mystery.”  He gestured back toward the living room. 

“Interesting.  Well, I have a mystery that needs solving,” you say, sipping at your lukewarm tea.  Chloe is saucier than you, with her mild quips. 

“Oh?”  He quirks an eyebrow.  “What’s that?” 

“Your last name?” 

“Solo.”

“Solo,” you repeat, but the name doesn’t mean anything to you aside from mission accomplished. 

“In that case,” he tells you, leaning forward on his elbows, “I have my own mystery.  What is your last name?”

“Jones.  Chloe Jones.”  Your identity, who seems pretty second nature by now.  Jones is a pretty common last name.  Your real last name, just like your real first name, your real face, and your real hair are all pretty unique. 

“Well, Miss or Misses?”

“Miss,” you confirm.

“Well Miss Chloe Jones, to new friendship?”  He holds his mug up for a toast. 

“To new friendship, Ben Solo.”  Your plain mugs clink together.

His phone rings and with reluctance, he answers.  You can’t distinguish the words on the other end of the line, but the inflection is harried. 

“My agent,” he tells you, covering the mouthpiece.  “Publishing emergency.  I’ll see you later?”

“Yes.”  He turns back to the conversation as he gets up and you walk him through the house. 

Your heart sinks a little as you close the door behind him.  It has been a nice change of pace having someone over for the afternoon.  Now your little house feels lonely. 

You walk around, turning on lights to dispel the impending darkness.  You also turn on your tv, craving background noise as you prepare dinner and go on with your night.  You make sure the doors are locked. 

**

When Ben leaves your house, he heads immediately to his computer in the spare bedroom of his house.  All around the room are photos, files, maps.  He types in a few passwords and begins clicking through a few screens. 

“Yes, I’m still here,” Ben answers.  “I’m checking the message now.  I just left the target’s house.  I’ve made contact.” 

His amber eyes scan the message quickly. 

“Soon?” he asks the voice on the other end of the phone.  The voice confirms.     

**

Later that night, you are awakened out of uneasy sleep.  Sitting up in bed, you couldn’t remember what you were dreaming about once you regained full consciousness, but you could guess. 

Somewhere in your house, the floorboards creak. 

You sit up ramrod straight, hardly daring to breathe. 

You wait for the noise to happen again, on edge and trying to remember if you have something handy you can use as a weapon. 

The floorboards creak again.  Panicking, you recall that your bedroom door isn’t locked.  You’ve grown complacent living here. 

Carefully, you peel back the covers and creep to your door, trying to turn the antique brass lock as quietly as possible.  You didn’t remember picking up your cellphone, but it’s in your hand, dialing emergency services.

“911,” the operator’s calm voice comes across the line. 

 “I have an intruder in my house,” you whisper.  Your eyes dart around the darkened room, looking for anything you can use. 

“What is your address?”  You provide any information the operator asks for as you wait. 

“Please stay on the line with me,” you say. 

“I’m sending officers there now as we wait.”

You back away from the door and wait. 

The boards creak again and the knob to your room twists. 

_Stay quiet, stay quiet, stay quiet,_ you chant over and over in your mind. 

This time the door creaks as pressure is applied.

When the door doesn’t budge, someone fumbles with the doorknob again.  They twist the knob and something metal clinks in the door lock.   

“They’re trying to get in my bedroom,” you tell the operator. 

“Stay calm,” the voice says. 

Suddenly, you hear sirens blaring down your street.  Whoever was outside your door thunders out of the house.     

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now things are heating up.


	4. They're Only Chasing Safety

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the love on this story. Sorry I have been MIA in updating. But, life.

You’re standing on your lawn, currently lit up like a bad rave in blues and reds in alternating rounds.  You’ve just given your statement to a policeman, watched them search your house and yard.  Neighbors had come out of their houses to watch the drama. 

At some point, you were allowed to call Rey to come get you.  You didn’t want to stay in your home. 

It was like Armitage was alive all over again with the way you were feeling, so exposed and violated.  You were sure you had locked your front door. 

While waiting on the lawn, Ben had come to see what the trouble was about.  He had emerged from his home, bleary-eyed until his gazed lighted on you. 

“What’s going on?” he asked the closest officer. 

“That’s what I would like to ask you,” the officer asks him.  She’s very tall, blonde, and stone-faced.  You instantly feel safe with her.  Bright, blue eyes rake over Ben’s rumpled form; ‘C. Phasma’ her nametag reads. 

“I was asleep next door and heard all the commotion.  Are you alright Chloe?” he asks, stepping closer to you.  His amber eyes are round and wide.  A large hand comes to rest on your shoulder.     

“Sir, what can you tell me about what happened next door?” Phasma asks. 

“I don’t know.  I was asleep!  Look, Chloe, are you okay?”  His eyes are searching your own.  Even in the chaos of the flashing red and blue strobes, you see the flecks of light color hidden in amongst the amber.  His eyes are still wide. 

His dark eyes rake over your face and you realize, perhaps a little vainly, that you do not have your makeup on.  The scars that bisect the side of your face are in their full, angry pink glory.

“I-I-,” but the phrase doesn’t want to fall from your lips. 

Instead, you feel like you’re going to cry.  And that makes you want to cry all the more because you hate crying. 

“There you are!” Rey shouts from the curb.  She bounds up to you, eyebrows knitted with concern and frustration.  “They didn’t want to let me through, but I explained.”  She draws you into a tight hug. 

Phasma clears her throat, glaring around at the emerging circle around her. 

“Ahem, just a few more questions,” Phasma says pointedly. 

“No, enough questions.  You already have her statement I’m sure,” Ben interjects suddenly, his face hard.  “She’s exhausted.” 

“Yeah,” Rey agrees.  Then whispers to you, “That’s him huh?  What a fox!” 

Despite the severity of the situation, you blush. 

“Alright,” Phasma relents.  She presses a card into your hand, closing your fingers over it.  “Please call us as soon as you rest.  We’ll change the locks at no cost to you and provide you with new keys.  I would advise you to explore some additional security devices, cameras, something.”

“Sure,” you nod.  You’re exhausted. 

“I can help with that,” Ben tells you.  “Whenever you’re ready.” 

You simply nod for him.  Your adrenaline has worn off.   You want nothing more than to curl up and sleep. 

You make your goodbyes and walk away with Rey, her arm a comforting weight across your shoulders. 

She doesn’t pry on the way to her apartment.  You will tell her in good time. 

“Take my bed for the night,” Rey tells you, pushing you towards her bedroom.  “You can lock the door if you want.” 

“Mmm,” you mumble.  You manage to lock the door before you collapse on the bed. 

**

In the morning, the heady scent of coffee raises you from the dead.  Rey is in her kitchenette, humming, and fussing about to prepare breakfast. 

“I’ll take a cup of that,” you croak, stumbling in and pointing to the coffee pot. 

“Thought you might,” Rey says.  She is a morning person; you envy her. 

You sink your heavy body down into one of two chairs, dropping your head to the table.  Last night was not a dream. 

“Chlo, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go to work today,” Rey tells you gently.  You hear the ‘clink’ of the coffee cup.  Blearily, you look up at her. 

“Why?”  The word drawls from your lips. 

“Well, I mean, the intensity of last night.”

‘Oh, that,’ you think, briefly recalling that most people would have remained freaked out.  You had seen much worse.  Chloe hadn’t though. 

“Yeah, I guess I should.  I probably need to check in at the station and check my house and all.” 

“Good idea.”

**

A few phone calls later, one trip to the police station, and several hectic bus rides, you are back at your home. 

The police were not sure what to make of it and you didn’t want to read too deeply into it either.  Going too deep would bring Armitage back to life.  And the world was not ready for that. 

After standing on the sidewalk for a few minutes, contemplating whether to enter, you realize that Ben is coming towards you from his home. 

“Want some company?” he asks.  Those dark eyes are searching your face and you realize, yet again, that your marks are laid bare before him.  You give him a few seconds to question or comment, but he doesn’t. 

“Sure, I would like that.” 

“I’ll lead.” 

You hand him the keys from the police department, where your locks were changed.  This probably isn’t your best idea, but you also don’t want to go inside alone.  At least, if something is waiting for you, it will get him first. 

With a deft motion, he unlocks the door and you follow him inside. 

You’re not sure what you’re expecting; mass chaos, disorder. 

Instead, your home is relatively the same. 

Silently, you both go from room to room, opening doors and checking every corner.  As he moves from room to room, you can’t help but admire the determined set to his shoulders, how he moves like a wraith from section to section, his general military bearing. 

Briefly, you consider that perhaps he was the person who had broken into your home.  But seeing the steely glint in his eyes as he scours every detail, searching for any sign of the unusual, you know that it wasn’t him. 

If Ben had broken into your home the night before, you wouldn’t have heard him. 

Unless he wanted you to. 

But why? 

No clear motive. 

Quickly, you push the thought away. 

The lump that has been building in your throat finally subsides once you return to the kitchen together. 

“Hey, that’s where I left my book,” Ben says, pointing to the table. 

_Purple Sage_ is in the same spot on your country chic kitchen table where he left it during your impromptu tea party. 

“Oh, I could have returned it,” you tell him, knowing full well that you wouldn’t have.  It would have been an excuse for him to return to your inner sanctum. 

He seems to have reached the same conclusion, “You could have, but then I would have needed to invent a different excuse to come back to see you,” he grins. 

Feeling sassy you reply, “You do have another excuse.  Remember, you were going to bring me one of your hilarious mugs?” 

“Guilty as charged.  How about we drop all the excuses and cut to the chase?  Let’s just agree that we want to see more of each other.  True?” 

Blush worms its ugly head, crawling up your neck and blazing across your cheeks. 

“Well, my mother did always say to tell the truth.”  Even that statement was a lie.  Your mother had told you many things, like “Get the money first before you give up the goods.” 

“She did, did she?  Since we determined the boogey man is not hiding in your home, wanna join me for a cup of joe?” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Underoath owns the chapter title.


	5. Cup of Joe and Suspicious Minds

You are not sure what you’re expecting when you follow Ben next door.  As you step through the entryway, you’re greeted by the faint scent of sandalwood and pine from a nearby diffuser.  The wood floors creak beneath your feet as you follow him through the living room to the kitchen. 

He kicks his shoes off, padding around on the polished floor.  You follow suit.  When in Rome…

You can’t help but glance around your surroundings.  Prints of different styles of artwork decorate the walls; pictures of him with what you assume are family members, as he bears such a strong resemblance to the man and woman in the pictures. 

He has different wall accents like cowboys and hunting memorabilia.  So different from the cold and almost sterile environment you shared with Armitage. 

You get sidetracked by the wall of enormous bookshelves.  They’re half empty but you see a set of battered cowboy novels gracing the space.  You also notice a few crime procedurals. 

Before you know what’s happened, you’ve grabbed a novel and sat down in one of the slightly used recliners, tucking your legs and feet up. 

You don’t hear Ben calling for you as you trace your fingers across well-loved pages containing fading words and dog-eared chapters. 

“Well, glad to see you’ve made yourself at home,” Ben tells you as he chuckles.  You startle, hand flying to your chest. 

“Sorry!” 

“Don’t be,” he says, setting a steaming cup of coffee down beside you.  “I took a guess with how you like your coffee.  Cream and sugar.” 

“Yes, thank you.”  You set the book down and take a sip, doing a little happy dance in your seat because he got the cream to sugar ratio almost right. 

He’s brought you the coffee mug “to drink whenever sleepy.” 

“I see you’ve been in my books.”

“Can’t resist,” you say sheepishly. 

“That’s fine.” 

“Kind of spartan, huh?” you tease. 

“Well, you know, the charms of bachelor living.  I spend most of my time in my office anyway.”

“The exciting life of an author.” 

He chuckled, rich and low.  You find it burns in a place below your stomach.  Then your face burns because of the effect of his laugh.  Soon, you’re a hot mess sitting there sipping hot coffee. 

“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” he starts, staring at his large, calloused hands.  You can tell by his body language that he isn’t wholly comfortable with what he wants to know. 

“What?”  For a moment you entertain the thought that maybe he is going to ask you on a date. 

“How come you’ve been hiding your face?  Your real face?” 

For one laughable moment, you were reminded of the Joker and why he was always asking everyone to question his scars.  You didn’t have a myriad of stories.  You only had the one, with your ex.  The reason you were on the run. 

“Because people freak out.” 

“Fair enough,” he said softly, reaching to touch one of the raised pink scars that bisected the left half of your face. 

No one usually touched you.  His motion was so natural, so effortless. 

A calloused finger traced the scar running from near your ear to the corner of your lips.  A delicious shiver of want coursed through you.  God, it had been forever since anyone had touched you. 

Armitage had not been known for his tenderness with you, especially toward the end of your relationship.  His finger further traced across the softness of your lips, stroking a line on the other side of your face, the unblemished one. 

Those intense hazel eyes, flecked with gold, watched you intently, searching for a reaction. 

A little sigh escapes your lips. 

“You know, you look better without the makeup,” he tells you.  “Fuck what everyone else thinks.” 

He draws his hand away and you bite down on your lip to keep from moaning.  Like a puppy, you want him to keep touching you, to keep his attention focused on only you.  You almost miss the compliment. 

“Thank you,” you tell him, pulling back into the comfort of the chair. 

“Like a fierce heroine out of a dystopian novel,” he further compliments you. 

“Your novel?” you joke. 

“Perhaps one day,” he smiles, sipping at his coffee. 

You had looked for his novels at work but had not found any under the name Ben Solo.  He must write under a pen name.   

“How is your novel going?” you inquire politely, trying to quash down your emerging lust.  This man is still a stranger. 

He sips and seems to be considering.  “Well, it’s going.  I think I’ve about got the plot twist ready to reveal.  Should be soon.” 

“Oh?  Will the detective get their man?”

“Don’t know.  Depends on the plot twist.  Sometimes the characters’ behavior is out of my hands.” 

He looks at you intently over the top of his coffee cup.  His eyes trace the scars briefly, crawling down your neck.  You had a sneaking suspicion that there was something Ben was trying to communicate. 

But talk turned to other things. 

This was the most time you had spent with a man since your ex.  This wasn’t at all like spending time with Armitage. 

Time with Armitage had not revolved around picking your brain over current politics or the latest season of that one show about the amateur singers.  Ben, of course, read the paper and liked to discuss current news. 

Armitage had stopped letting you read the paper and books.  You were not allowed to discuss anything with him, outside of what you would be doing for him in the bedroom.  Even then, it was not about your wants or needs.  It was all about pleasuring him. 

God, you hadn’t had an orgasm in years. 

Sitting across from the gorgeous Ben, you realized that you had never been fulfilled sexually by your husband.  The same way that Armitage didn’t believe that women should be educated, he also believed that women were just there for the pleasure of men. 

When you had first met Armitage, you had been young and stupid.  You didn’t know any better.  You thought the sex was great.  You thought he really loved you, by showing you this physical affection. 

You never discussed what real love meant with your mother.  When she was home, she was sleeping off her bar tab.  When she was gone, she out making money with her body.  She didn’t know what love really was, the love you read about in your stolen books hidden under covers with flashlights.  The illegitimate princess saved by the prince. 

Armitage Hux had fit the bill at the time. 

He was suave, taking you on expensive dates, and giving you all of his attention.  You loved raking your fingers through his soft ginger hair, listening to him whisper in your ear with his sexy accent – making event the obscenest of commands sound pleasurable. 

Whirlwind. 

You were married in a small, private ceremony at the courthouse.  Your mother wasn’t invited.  You didn’t even tell her until three weeks later. 

His little requests soon became demands.  When you resisted, you lost consciousness. 

No phone calls unless he was home, sitting next to you.  Then, the phone conversations were limited to three minutes.  No friends over, ever.  Then came the “favors.”  ‘Can you sleep with this man? I owe him a lot of money darling, but he will forgive my debts if he can just spend some sweet time with you my pet.’  Eventually, he stopped asking and would just drop you off. 

If you resisted, you were beaten.  Not anywhere it would show with your clothing on.  Hux knew that your face, your beautiful face was what attracted men. 

By the time his associates had left you in the desert, you no longer had the will to resist. 

“You okay Chloe?” Ben’s deep voice draws you back. 

“Yes, just took a little mental vacay for a moment.”  It is not a lie. 

His brow is furrowed.  How long had you zoned out?  If you kept zoning out about your ex, how would you meet someone new?

“What made you move to this neck of the woods?  Was it for work?” you ask. 

“You could say that.” 

Is Ben purposely evading direct answers? 

“This isn’t exactly the big city,” you point out.  “And we’re surrounded by pensioners.” 

“I wanted some peace and quiet from the city and my ex.”

“Really?  Do tell,” you say, leaning forward in the plush seat. 

“I see I have your attention now,” Ben laughs. 

“You had my attention before.” 

“I’ll share mine if you share yours.” 

Panic strikes through you.  You literally cannot explain your ex.  You wonder if you can lie convincingly.  Chloe, of course, can lie. 

“Not much to tell on mine.  He was a jerk; I threw him out.  I kept the house.” 

“Ever the storyteller huh?” Ben teases. 

“I just read the stories.  I don’t write them Mr. Author.” 

“This isn’t one that would make a good novel.  My ex, Rey, left me for a guy named Finn.  Finn was a good guy, able to give her attention that I couldn’t, being gone all the time with tours or being locked in my study when I was home.  Truth was, we didn’t have much in common anymore.  So, I decided to move away from the constant reminders.  Here I am.”    

“You’re right.  There weren’t enough fisticuffs for it to be a novel,” you say. 

“No, no fisticuffs.  There was some shouting and liberal use of fuck,” Ben confesses.  “But nothing much more exciting.  Sorry.” 

He avoids looking at you for a moment. 

A little nagging suspicion boils in your stomach. 

He had just moved to your neighborhood, but he was that easygoing about his relationship? 

Of course, you had to assume that his was not as extreme as yours.  Maybe it was easier for him. 

But still, you felt he was hiding something. 

Even after Armitage had brutalized you, tried to kill you, you had to work through stages of relationship grief.  You had to get used to being on your own again. 

Ben’s cell rang.  He glanced at the screen. 

“Oh, gotta take this.  Be right back.” 

You nodded as you watched him retreat from the room to a little office just off the living room.  He shut the door behind him, and you couldn’t hear his voice. 

A few moments later, he emerged again, running a hand through his dark hair and blowing his cheeks out in frustration. 

“I am so sorry,” he says, “but we’re going to have to cut this off early.  I have some publishing things I have to take care of.”  The hand that had been in his hair was now swiped over his face. 

“Oh, no problem,” you tell him brightly.  You were a little disappointed. 

He takes your hands. 

“How about, if you don’t have plans tomorrow night, I get you for dinner?  Around seven?”  

“Yes, sure.  Sounds great!” 

“Perfect.  I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

Even though your privacy had been invaded, you returned to your house feeling better than before.  But still, your gut nagged at you that Ben wasn’t being totally honest.  Not that you had any room to talk.    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hit me up with any ideas of things you would like to see.

**Author's Note:**

> So my first time posting on this site and my first Star Wars related fic. More coming soon.


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